


London Gods

by a_different_equation



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - American Gods Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: Sherlock (TV) Unaired Pilot, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Genie Sherlock Holmes, Good Omens References, Human John, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Magical Realism, Marathon Sex, PTSD John, Poetic, Sensuality, Sex Magic, Soulmates, Star-crossed, True Love, the magical car AKA the London Cab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-12-30 11:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a jinn who does not grant wishes. However, when Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from the war in Afghanistan, gets into his cab by "accident", it might not even need magic to grant both men their deepest wish: love.“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you have a sister who is worried about you but you will not go to her for help because you do not approve of her – possibly, because she is an alcoholic, more likely because she recently walked out on her wife. And I know that we met because I am a Jinn. It is fate, kismet, whatever you like to call it, John – and believe me, I wished things were different, too. I hate surprises just like you. That’s enough to go on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock turned and walked into the room again. As if an afterthought, he added, “Yes, I am always like that.”“Okay.”“That’s not how people normally react.”“What do people normally say?”“Grant my wish.”“But you don’t grant wishes.”“Exactly.”“Idiots.”





	1. Somewhere in London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elwinglyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/gifts), [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).



> Hello & welcome to "LONDON GODS",
> 
> you don't need to know much/anything about the TV series and the novel by Neil Gaiman to enjoy the fic (or so I believe); however, if you have time, do yourself a favour and give it a go, it's amazing & highly addictive.
> 
> AMERICAN GODS is an American fantasy drama television series based on Neil Gaiman's novel of the same name and developed by Bryan Fuller and Michael Green. Basically, it's the final battle between Old and New Gods, and the question who's more important to the mortals aka us. 
> 
> "LONDON GODS" only adapts one particular sub-story of "AMERICAN GODS" which is the storyline of the star-crossed lovers, Salim and the Jinn. Exactly, it's the one with the groundbreaking sex scene (episode 1.3: "Head Full of Snow"): In New York City, an Omani businessman named Salim meets a taxi driver, who is revealed to be an Ifrit (= Jinn/Genie). The two have a sexual encounter, and the following morning, they have exchanged lives.
> 
> My gratitude to elwinglre and irisbleufic who were the best betas, cheerleader & fans of Gaiman's work as well as Johnlock a writer could wish for. You two are amazing :)
> 
> Enjoy "LONDON GODS"!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to his wish granted ("Dear God, let me live"), John Watson is back from Afghanistan. However, how good is a miracle if you cannot survive another week in London? Let's see what fate plans for him...

_I do not pray to ask God for things._

_I pray to thank God for bringing me where I am._

_To this time, to this place, where I finally know what I must do in this life._

_I pray I find the Jinn. He is my a f t e r l i f e._

_I knew him. We knew each other._

_Now I want to know more._

(Bryan Fuller: AMERICAN GODS)

 

 

Sherlock Holmes had been born on a Wednesday under a scorching burning sun, long before the first God. After the Prophecy of Revelations, the Jinn had been given a choice: convert to Islam or live their lives as heretic demons. Obviously, Sherlock had chosen _heretic demon_.

He had been there, in the City of Sodom, when it had been burned to the ground. Irene, a fellow female Jinn, had replied constantly to Sherlock’s, “You smell like sex... with humans” with a nonchalant, “This is maybe because I like fucking them”. They had been selfish, but they had had tears in their eyes when they had hunted the ruins later.

Sherlock had been at the city of Ubar, The Lost City of Towers, in Oman. It had been a good city. On most nights, there would have been three, maybe four thousand people: every traveller would rest at Ubar, and the music would play, and the wine would flow like water and the water would flow as well, which was why the city had existed. It had perished a thousand years ago, maybe two; time did not matter when you were immortal.

His last assignment had been Afghanistan. Here, the locals and the outsiders – whatever nation they called themselves at the moment – had been fighting on off for more than a century. In the 18th century, it had been the Afghan-Anglo-War. The only differences to the 21st century were semantics and modern artillery. Afghanistan had been Sherlock Holmes' homeland, now, it was New Gods' battleground.

All he heard now were the prayers of the locals, the ones who still believed in the Jinn. All they wished for was, “Dear God, let me live”. They all knew the abominable truth: he could not grant their wish. Jinn could not grant this kind of wishes.

However, when Dr. John H. Watson, captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, got shot and he uttered the words, “Dear God, let me live”, all was changed. Apparently, it was true: love could conquer it all.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I’m with him.”

He pointed at John Watson, slowly bleeding out on the hot desert of Afghanistan.

He knew that where fate led them was dangerous. He could hear his overbearing brother Mycroft in his head. As if summoned by Sherlock’s first proclamation, he, the smartest Jinn, appeared. Mycroft even carried his umbrella; Sherlock would not miss his sunglasses much in his new life.

“You are not using your head, Sherlock. You are a jinn and he is a mortal man.”

“Really, Mycroft, I haven’t noticed.”

“You have the freedom to go everywhere you wanted, anywhere. Why choose him?”

“He is my _anywhere_. I follow my heart, Mycroft.” It was the second time. The Gods were counting. Numbers had power, just like many other things when you believed in them.

“Why risk your immortality for him? I do not wish you to sacrifice it for him, brother dear.”

Again, for the third time, Sherlock insisted, “I believe in John Watson.” And  - if fate, God, whoever needed more convincing - the Jinn added, “I believe in him. This is the belief _I_ need. Let me help him.”

 

* * *

 

John Watson stood in his bedroom in London as rain poured down the window and thunder rumbled.

In his head, he repeated the mantra of a dead man: _Love and war may sit on opposite sides of a coin, but only so they can never meet_. The ex-of-many-things looked tired, and his face was full of pain. He lowered his head, catching his figure in the mirror, broken.

The next voice was of his father: _Blind and stubborn, Johnny. A fairy that believed in a fairy tale._

John Watson was no idiot. He knew the truth, and the truth had the voice of Him: _I wanted to get that magic back so bad but one day I just accepted the fact that I couldn’t because life is just not that interesting._ John Watson lowered his head further and wept.

Finally, he wiped his eyes, sniffed deeply and raised his head, coming to attention in front of a ghost.

John Watson’s personal demon.

A man with eyes as flames.

He wasn’t real. None of this was.

Nodding in salute to him and giving himself permission to dismiss, John Watson turned smartly on his heel and then soldiered on.

 

* * *

 

For half a year now, John had been back in London. His birth city that used to be his home for decades, it did not scare John (or, so he claimed). Yet, his new situation was alienating, and so he held his cane protectively, clutching his updated CV to his chest. If asked, John would say he believed it was the immensity. The hugeness of things below. The darkness of dreams. He was afraid of his memories: the ones in which he was dressed all in black-and-white and the one in which he carried himself military bearing that was apparent to him alone. In truth, John Watson was anxious of London with its sheer quantity of people, all shapes and sizes, as they spilled from their high, filthy buildings onto the sidewalks. He was petrified of the honking hullabaloo of the traffic, and he was even worried of the air, which smelled both dirty and sweet – nothing at all like the air of Afghanistan.

His army pension kept him barely housed and fed; even then, he was living beyond his means. When he had enlisted fresh out of university, it had seemed so huge a sum; now, it was evaporating faster than John had believed possible.

His nutrition was lacking. Instead of cooking, he bought take-away and ready-made meals, smuggled it up to the bedsit beneath his coat for days before he realized that no one cared. Even then he felt strange about carrying the bags of food into the dimly little elevators (John always had to bend and squint to find the button to press to take him to his floor) and up to the tiny room in which he stayed. His latest constant companion was the bottle of cheap alcohol if tea did not offer enough comfort against the harsh reality of twilight.

John and Harry Watson had never got along, but when he had returned from the war, she had been John’s only option. For obvious reasons, John had to relocate from his sister’s place to his own bedsit in a terrible part of London soon. He found it claustrophobic, expensive, and alien. There was nothing for John outside London – no family to count on, no friends devoted enough to offer support – so he had to make do. John sensed that he would lose his lodgings again because he screamed in the night.

Once John Watson had been a crack-shot. Now he had nothing, save a fear of the world-beneath-the-world that meant that he would gladly spend parts of his army pension on London cabs rather than to travel underground. Still, the fogs and darkness of London comforted him, took him in.

Over time, he grew better at ignoring pity-filled stares. _Poor sod, his leg must be hurting_ etc. etc. etc. God, how John hated it. He stumbled into overheated offices, cheeks numb from the January cold outside, sweating beneath his coat, shoes soaked by slush. _Stubbornness_ : _the so-called bravery of a soldier, the kindest word for stupidity._ Hell, John knew this. He went job hunting even if it was killing him. _He still believes in what he was told. Not what he has seen or what he has expected. The good little soldier, still doing what his parents told him to do._ Day in, day out, he showed numerous blank faces his poor life story.

All John Watson needed was a miracle.

John had come back to London after being shot in the shoulder, and that he survived should have been a miracle enough, however, what good was surviving when one scarcely had means to live another week? His nerves were too shattered to guarantee a full night’s sleep. He had woken more often than not with the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. Recently, he caught himself thinking about ending it all with his illegal service revolver. Apparently, posttraumatic stress disorder was far worse than all the warnings made it out to be.

Neither talking, nor writing a blog about his so-called life would help him; yet his therapist Ella Thompson insisted on the opposite. Seriously tough, what should Dr. John H. Watson, ex-captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, write? Nothing ever happened to him.

His main room had always been too hot and stifling, so last night John had opened a window, and now it was too cold. When the sun had finally risen on a new day, John had put a dressing gown over his pyjamas, silently cursing to himself. He wished he could turn up the heating but he knew that he could never foot the bill.

Instead of undertaking his morning rounds as he used to do as a Rugby player in his early twenties, John hobbled across the room, heavily leaning on his cane, forbidding himself to think about how he came to the injury or how his shoulder looked without clothes nowadays. In his other hand he had a mug of tea and an apple, both of which he put down onto the desk. Sitting down, he opened the drawer in the desk to get his laptop. He reread the entries of his blog, telling that this would pass, that his staying in this strange world was limited and finite.

No, all John Watson needed was a miracle, but as he was no idiot, he knew that he would not get another one.

And that was where it all finally fell apart.

Because, underneath it all, John was an optimist. If there was one rock-hard certainty that had sustained him through the bad times – he thought briefly of Afghanistan – then it was utter surety that he would come out on top: that the universe would look after him.

So the childhood had come to an abrupt halt when the alcohol had caught up with his sorry-excuse of a father and the coming out of Harriet-turned-Harry had started a new battlefield; so the odds against him were higher that he would be kicked out too if he had ever strayed away from _I’m not gay_ , and so Johnny-turned-John had to blend in during university days and had try harder and harder still, – and yet, there had been still a chance.

It was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time.

The right place was London.

John was certain of that – partly from his memories, partly from some other sense. He was not hearing voices – not really, at least, when one did not count James and all the other boys he had tried to save but could not – but something told him that London was the key.

The right time was getting there before he pulled the trigger.

John checked his watch. He had two hours to get to another job interview.

 

* * *

 

John walked downtown, until he found the building and made his way to the fourth floor, to the office of Dr. Sarah Sawyer.

The office was dingy. While he knew that it was only local work, he also knew that it would be a start, so John sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair in an outer office, his CV ready and his cane close-by. He knew that he was staring at the middle-aged woman with her hair dyed too bright a blonde-haired person who sat behind the desk, blowing her nose on Kleenex after Kleenex. Yet, what else should he do? In another life, he might have even asked her for her number. After she blew her nose, she wiped it, and dropped the Kleenex into the trash.

John had there at ten-thirty, half an hour before his appointment. Now he sat there, flushed and shivering, wondering if he was running a fever. The time ticked by so slowly.

John looked at his watch. Then he cleared his throat.

The woman behind the desk glared at him. “Yes?”

“It is eleven thirty-five.”

The woman glances at the clock on the wall, and said, “Yes”, again. “It did.”

“My appointment was for eleven,” said John with a placating smile.

“The doctor knows you’re here,” she told him, reproving. Her nametag read Mary Morstan.

John picked up an old copy of the London Times from the table. He waited, glancing from his watch to his newspaper to the clock on the wall.

At twelve thirty, several people came out from the inner office. They talked loudly, jabbering away to each other. One of them, a middle-age woman glanced at John as she came out. She told the woman – Mary – behind the desk to try the juice of a lemon, also zinc, and John, Dr. John Watson would recommend the same treatment first before taking medicine. Mary promised her that she would, and gave her several envelopes. She pocketed them and then she and the other people went into the hall. The sound of their laughter disappeared down the stairwell.

It was one o’clock. The woman behind the desk opened a drawer and took out a brown paper bag, from which she removed several sandwiches, an apple, and a protein bar; she also took out a small plastic bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. So much about needing the women’s advice in the first place, John thought.

“Excuse me,” said John, “but can you perhaps call Dr. Sawyer and tell her that I am still waiting?”

She looked at him as if surprised to see that he was still there, as if they had not been sitting five feet apart for two and a half hours.

“She’s at lunch,” she replied.

John knew deep down in his gut that Sarah Sawyer had been the woman who had spoken to Mary. “When will she be back?”

Mary shrugged, took a bite of her sandwich. “She’s busy with appointments for the rest of the day,” she said.

“Will she see me, then, when she comes back?”

Mary shrugged again, and blew her nose once more.

John was hungry, increasingly so, and frustrated, and powerless.

At three o’clock, the woman looked at him and mentioned – as if it was nothing –, “She won’t be coming back.”

“Excuse me?”

“The doctor. She won’t be coming back today.”

“Can I make an appointment for tomorrow?”

She wept her nose. “You have to telephone. Appointments only by telephone.”

“I see,” replied John, British-polite. “Tomorrow I will telephone.”

 

* * *

 

When John left the office, he contemplated the long, cold walk back to his flat. Instead, he stepped to the edge of the pavement and waved at every cab that approached, whether the light on top was on or off, and every cab drove past him.

One of them accelerated as it passed; a wheel dove into a water-filled pothole, spraying freeing muddy water over John’s trousers and coat. For a moment, he contemplated throwing himself in front of one of the cars, and then he realized that his sister would be more concerned with the fate of the phone she had gifted to him than that of John himself, and that he would bring grief to no one: also, he doubted that any of the cars was going fast enough actually to end his life.

From somewhere, John heard his voice again, _"Men only see what they want to see and you are just like them, John: Blind and stubborn to the truth in front of your very own eyes. You still want to come with me?”_

 

tbc


	2. Remember The Jinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock who happens to be a Jinn - plot twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 2 of "London Gods". Thanks to all my readers who left kudos and/or comments. I hope you & the rest enjoy the ride! My gratitude to my two betas, elwinglre & irisbleufic, who are magic.

_I gave you the f r e e d o m to go anywhere you wanted._

_Where [fate] wants me to go is dangerous._

_You still want to come with me._

(Bryan Fuller: AMERICAN GODS)

 

 

A sleek car, almost a limousine, drew up beside John and, grateful to be able to abandon his train of thought, John got in.

The car was a 1926 black Bentley, one owner from new, and that owner had been the cabbie. He had looked after it. Not that this fact was obvious to the casual observer. They saw, for instance, the half-open Plexiglas barrier was covered with notices warning the passenger not to smoke, telling them much to pay to the various airports. What they assumed to be the recorded voice of somebody famous who reminded them to wear the seatbelt was indeed the driver himself.

Before John had given his directions, the cab driver grunted, and pulled away from the curb, into the traffic.

There was a rumble of a distant thunder. It was early afternoon, and the heavy storm clouds turned the sky the colours of old lead. It would rain soon, heavily, blindingly.

The Bentley plunged on through the beginning darkness, its fuel gauge pointing to zero. It had pointed to zero for more than sixty years now. The Bentley’s gearstick shifted itself down to third and the car accelerated around a fruit lorry, which had unexpectedly back out of a side street.

It was a ride as if all the demons of hell were after them and all the angels of heaven cheered them on.

The cabbie was clean-shaven, had black, curly hairs and pale skin with high cheekbones. He wore a gorgeous Belstaff, a blue scarf and black expensive looking sunglasses. The weather was gray, and night was falling: John wondered if the man had a problem with his eyes. The wipers smeared the street scene into gray and smudge lights.

The streets of London were rushing by.

They were nearing Zone 1.

Any minute now, they would be stop in a traffic jam. John was not sure how he had ended up in the London cab: accident, drugs, magic? It was not as if he could afford one. If he had not been so desperate, John would have giggled. It was not proper or sane or anything, but John had apparently left all that when he had his wish granted in the hot desert: _Dear God, let me live_. John should get off this mysterious cab, any minute now.

Seriously, what had John been thinking? The taximeter would be...

“You forgot to put on the taximeter,” John blurted out. Shit, shit, shit, now the taxi driver would put it up, or threw him out God knows where...

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?”

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq? John Watson, where were you when you were shot in the shoulder? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“How do you know my name? Scratch that. How could you possibly know I was shot in the shoulder?”

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You have been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you stepped to the car, but you didn’t ask for assistance when you got in You’ve exhibited no discomfort ever since – as if you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Afghanistan.”

Instantly, John was transported back.

Captain John Watson, in full military uniform, was standing on a battlefield. He flinched as a shell exploded close behind him. A second or a lifetime later, he was sitting next to a fallen brother-in-arms. He had tried to help him; God knew how he had tried.

Still tending to his fellow soldier, he had cowered as another bomb exploded and he was showered with earth. Some distance away, an enemy with a rifle had pulled the trigger.

The bullet had hit John’s left shoulder, and he had fallen to the ground.

The hot desert of Afghanistan would become his deathbed, John had believed.

Explosions had been still going off around him; his team had been still under fire.

A male voice had cried out his name as the gunfire had continued.

“John!”

It was not Major John Sholto’s voice that had called out to him, nor had it been loyal Bill Murray who had dragged him to safety.

“JOHN!”

John almost jumped in his seat.

He was in a cab in London; he was safe and a long way from the war. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself as memories continued to haunt him.

Then, soothing violin music reached John’s ear. Apparently, the driver had switched on the radio. The man brought him back to reality.

 

* * *

 

They had stopped at a red traffic light. The light turned green, but the taxi driver did not immediately move, despite the discordant blare of horns behind them.

Hesitantly, John reached through the hole in the Plexiglas and he touched the driver on the shoulder. The man’s head jerked up with a start, and he put his foot down on the gas, lurching them across the intersection.

“For Heaven – Hell – everyone’s sake,” he swore.

“You must be very tired, mate,” said John.

Even the most casual observer would notice a number of odd things about him. The clenched teeth, for example, or the dull red glow coming from behind his sunglasses.

And the car. The car was definitely a hint. However, the enigmatic man was a master of disguise – or so most people would define it (which proved that they were idiots, and, probably, as the man had once said, “Lower the IQ of a whole street.”).

If John or anyone else had looked at this man a bit closer – let us say, into his eyes – it would have been a dead giveaway. As this would not happen until ten minutes later, John had to listen to one of Sherlock’s make-belief tales – which came with the jobs, even Sherlock loved to claim that it was “not his division”.

“I have been driving this cab for thirty hours,” explained the driver. “It is too much. Before that, I sleep for five hours, and I drove fourteen hours before that. We are shorthanded, before the Holidays.”

“I hope you have made a lot of money.”

The driver sighed. “Not much. This morning I drove a man to Heathrow. When we got there, he ran off into the airport, and I could not find him again. A decent fare gone, and I had to pay the tolls on the way back myself.”

Somehow, John sensed that this was not the complete story, although sometimes some stories were truer than the truth – or so John would learn in the next hours.

 

* * *

 

They turned onto the next street, where the traffic had stopped completely. A lorry had blocked the road. The rain was not helping. There was a cacophony of horns, but the cars did not move.

John wondered if he has ever seen a traffic jam like it. Maybe there had been an accident. Quite possibly, John mused. Anyway, John could not stop thinking that he would go slightly fast walking.

Something was odd about today, about London; he could not pinpoint exactly what it was.

The driver swayed in his seat. His chin began to descend to his chest, one, two, three times. Then he began gently to snore.

John reached out to wake the man, hoping that he was doing the right thing. It was the second time that John touched the stranger. Not that he was counting.

However, unbeknownst to him, numbers _did_ have power. As John Watson shook his shoulder the driver moved. John’s hand brushed the man’s face, knocking the man’s sunglasses from his face into his lap.

The cab driver opened his eyes; he grabbed and replaced immediately the black sunglasses, but it was too late.

John had seen his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The cars crawled forward in the rain. The cab picked up speed. The tension inside the car grew with each meter.

“Are you going to kill me?” asked John. He watched driver’s face in the rear-view mirror. The flames were lurking; rising and falling; flickering behind the glasses.

“Nope.” The man was popping the ‘p’-sound.

The car stopped again. The rain pattered on the roof.

John had a morbid curiosity. His sister reminded him of this often in the same singsong voice as their mother. In addition, John Watson was no quitter.

Lastly, he was a storyteller. He knew when he was in one. But surely, he had no clue how it would end. Would he wake up some time later and this all would be a strange dream? He was willing to play his part at the side of this enigmatic man – if only for a time.

He tried it out in his mind: _I’m John. I’m a mortal man. I’m with him._

This seemed to be the best choice John had made in recent memory.

Therefore, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

“The locals in Afghanistan swore that they had seen Jinn, late one evening, on the edge of the desert. We told them that it was just a sandstorm, a little wind, but they said no, they saw its face, and its eyes, like yours, were burning flames.”

The driver smiled, but his eyes were hidden behind the black sunglasses once more, and John could not tell whether there was any humour in that smile or not.

“Oh, John.” The mysterious man had let his voice drop, and John licked his lips. “And here I thought that you were an idiot. Oh, don’t scoff, practically everyone is. Yes, John, I’m a Jinn.”

The man – Jinn – made a waving gesture with his hand.

The traffic jam disappeared, as if it had never happened in the first place.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes continued their journey through the city.

 

* * *

 

“Are there many of you in London?”

The Jinn appeared to be gloomy.

John watched his face in the mirror as he spoke, staring at his sensual lips.

“No. Not many of us. People know nothing about my people here. They think we grant wishes. If I could grant wishes, do you think I would be driving a cab?”

“But”, John sputtered while the world spun on its axes, “isn’t that what a genie suppose to do? Like, isn’t it normal to grant wishes?”

“Normal is boring.”

John put out a hand, patting his shoulder. It was the third time he reached out to him, and all was different now.

Oh, it was not obvious yet – particularly not to a mortal like John Watson. The change would take some time to recognised, to adjust (even he would take less time than most, as John Watson was not an average man), but the universe had shifted.

All that John could feel was solid flesh through the driver’s Belstaff coat. However, this time, the Jinn raised his hand from the wheel, rested it on the John’s hand for a flicker of a second.

John thought of the desert then: red sands blew a dust storm through his thoughts, and the scarlet silks of the tents that had surrounded the lost city flapped and billowed through his mind.

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meeting as a driver and his passenger is based on Neil Gaiman's novel. However, in book and later adaptation it's set in NYC. I changed this as well as the car, which itself is a homage to Neil Gaiman's novel, GOOD OMENS. The demon Crowley drives a Bentley that has supernatural powers (or, what happens when you're owner is a supernatural being? Dunno.).
> 
> The quote about John (= Salim) introducing himself as a mortal man and declaring that he's with him (= Jinn) is from season 2 of AMERICAN GODS. Wherever the star-crossed lovers go on their roadtrip, he always says this line. Sorry for potential spoilers!


	3. Believe In Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinn!Shrerlock brings human!John to 221b. It's not where John wanted to go, but maybe it's exactly where he's needed to be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome (back) to the third chapter of LONDON GODS,
> 
> I'm so excited to see how well-recieved this fic is so far. Seriously, all your comments and the kudos and the enthusiastic replies on tumblr <3 Thanks once more to my two betas, elwinglre & irisbleufic. 
> 
> Let's go back to our star-crossed lovers, shall we?

 

_I am a mortal man. I am following my h e a r t._

_(AMERICAN GODS)_

 

 

It was approaching six o’clock in the evening.

They pulled up before a Victorian facade that was now a private residence. John instantly spotted the café called Speedy’s downstairs. Upstairs, there appeared to be flats, beautiful and strangely familiar.

Those were John’s immediate thoughts: queer, and a rather odd mix. John wished he could move in immediately, but who would have him as a flatmate? John knew that he was not easy man to live with.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street,” announced the driver in a crisp voice. “I am a Jinn, and I really don’t grant wishes.” He smiled self-consciously at John. As if sensing John’s hesitation and bewilderment, and addiction to danger, he added, “Come on, John!”

It was as if a switch in John’s mind had been flipped off.

Sherlock winked at him, so John rushed after him.

There had to be music playing, thrilling, joyful, announcing: _The Game was on_.

Suddenly, John Watson felt alive. He smiled back and touched the man’s arm.

“I am here,” he said.

John realised neither that he had left his cane in the taxi, nor that, the second the wooden door shut behind them, a man, wearing a three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella, appeared. The man got in the car and drove it away.

Before John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had even reached 221b, it was as if the magic car – the London cab – had never existed in the first place.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock trotted up the stairs to the first floor landing, and then paused and waited for John to catch up. As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door ahead of him and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. John followed him in and looked around the room, and at all the possessions and boxes scattered around it.

“Well, this is very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

“So this is... your flat.”

Sherlock turned back from what John assumed was the kitchen and strolled closer to John.

“My flat,” the stranger simultaneously.

“We’ve just met, and you drove me to your flat?”

“Problem?”There it was again, the wink.

John smiled in disbelief. He turned back to the younger man.

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t even know how we met; I don’t even know how you know my name.”

Sherlock looked closely at John for a moment before speaking.

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you have a sister who is worried about you but you will not go to her for help because you do not approve of her – possibly, because she is an alcoholic, more likely because she recently walked out on her wife. And I know that we met because I am a Jinn. It is fate, kismet, whatever you like to call it, John – and believe me, I wished things were different, too. I hate surprises just like you. That’s enough to go on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock turned and walked into the room again. As if an afterthought, he added, “Yes, I am always like that.”

“Okay.”

“That’s not how people normally react.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Grant my wish.”

“But you don’t grant wishes.”

“Exactly.”

“Idiots.”

“Quite.”

They both started to giggle.

 

* * *

 

The flat was a mess, but a cosy one. Homey. Sherlock walked across the living room and made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace. He put them on the mantelpiece, and then stabbed a multi-tool knife into them.

John noticed, with horror and amusement, that something else was on the mantelpiece.

“That’s a skull.”

“Friend of mine. When I say _friend_... Anyway, a cup of tea, John?”

“Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you. Couple of biscuits too, if you have got them.”

John walked over to one of the two armchairs, plumped up a cushion on the chair, and then dropped heavily down into it. Yes, this could be nice, he thought.

John had just picked up the newspaper and skipped the headlines for an article to read when Sherlock interrupted him.

“You have to make the tea, John.” The _obviously_ was heavily implied.

Seriously, what was wrong with his man? Except the obvious – that he was a jinn, and apparently not the commonest sort.

“I can search for the biscuits; otherwise, you will disturb my experiments. Look out for the nitrite acid. There was a little mishap yesterday.”

Off he went, and John followed him, sensing that this would be his life from now on.

 

* * *

 

John picked up an almost empty bottle of milk from the mantelpiece, and then walked into the kitchen. “Oi, what’s this?”

He put the mug on the table before taking the milk to the refrigerator, the interior of which smelled _terrible_. Putting the milk away, he picked up the offending smelly item and threw it in the bin.

Out of sheer, horrified curiosity, he opened the salad crisper and took out a clear plastic bag. Peering at its contents, he cringed when he realised what was inside: thumbs.

He dropped the thumbs back into the crisper.

Kicking the door shut, John frowned. He remembered Sherlock’s talk about experiments. However, when he discovered a human eye in a mug in the cupboard, that was the last straw.

“Sherlock, do I _want_ to know what happened with this eyeball?” he called out.

“The previous owner didn’t lose it. I still know exactly where he is in case he wants it back. He exchanged it for wisdom.”

As if summoned, Sherlock was suddenly standing in the kitchen. Before meeting Sherlock, John would have put such things into the category of a fairy tale. However, trading with a Jinn – nothing could be impossible, not as John believed in such things now.

Life in 221b was alarmingly domestic. He somehow sensed that if he were to discover – let us say, a foot in the larder – that he would not bat an eyelash. Sure, he would order Sherlock around to clean up his mess, but not without both of them in companionable hysterics.

 

* * *

 

Sitting in his armchair next to the fire, Sherlock’s face was open and almost relaxed. John sensed that was unusual for him, and it warmed his heart.

John stat down in the armchair opposite him, the one with the Union Jack-pillow. He had only been there a few hours, but it felt like home already.

Sherlock had his hands in front of his mouth, almost as if in prayer. For a moment, he glanced at John, the flames in his eyes fixed on him. Abruptly, the Jinn continued to gaze into the hearth.

John wondered if he ought to be afraid – and, more importantly, why he _wasn’t_.

Before meeting Sherlock, he had been afraid. More often than he had liked, he had been on the verge of a panic attack. He had spent many nights in his bedsit gulping cheap alcohol. Back then, he had been felt adrift, powerless, frightened. Once, he had slammed the glass down onto the table so hard that it had shattered.

Constantly, his body had betrayed him. He vividly remembered raising his voice against his sister, ashamed of how he had driven away everyone who wanted to help. He had insisted, repeatedly, there was nothing wrong with him.

No, nothing wrong except for nights when he had been to began to hyperventilate, he had press his fingertips to his temples, groaning in anguish. Or how he had forced himself to blow out breaths to calm himself, his fingers trembling against his skin. His face had been twisted with self-loathing, trying to unsuccessfully to blink back tears.

The night before he had met Sherlock Holmes, John had experienced something that he had not really experienced before. More than fear, more than crushing anxiety: it was doubt.

John had felt doubt. Once, he had been able to trust his optimism that the universe would sort it out somehow. That was why meeting Sherlock Holmes was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Before, he had been alone. He owed him so much.

They came from different universes but they were somehow star-crossed. They were meant to be together: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And for both their sakes, John Watson was ready to fight for it.

There was fire in his eyes and love in his heart.

 

* * *

 

“How do you know about my family?”

“Your phone. It is expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you are looking for a flat share – you would not waste money on this. It’s a gift then.”

Somehow, John’s phone had found its way into Sherlock’s hand. While John was still trying to find a logical solution how that had happened, Sherlock – unperturbed – turned it over.

“Scratches. Not one, but many over time. It has been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me would not treat his one luxury item like this, so it must have had a previous owner. Next bit is easy. You know it already.”

John was drawn by it like an extra clever magic trick, and, in a way, that was accurate. Was this how Sherlock preferred to use his powers? To entertain people?

John was certainly enchanted by him. “The engraving,” he said.

“ _Harry Watson: From Clara. XXX._ Harry Watson: clearly a family member who has given you their old phone. Not one of your parents, this is a young person’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you are a war hero who cannot find a place to live. Unlikely you have an extended family, certainly not one you are close to, so sibling it is. Now, Clara. Who is Clara? Three kisses say it is a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. They must have given it to her recently – this model is only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months and it is already given away. If they had left her, they would have kept it. People do it – sentiment. But no, they wanted rid of it. They left her. They gave the phone to you: that says they want you to stay in touch. You are looking for cheap accommodation, but you are not going to your sibling for help: that says you got problems with them. Maybe you liked the wife; maybe you don’t like the drinking.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock smiled, wicked man.“ Shot in the dark. Good one, tough. Power connection: tiny little scuffs marks around the edge of it. Every night they go to plug it in to charge but their hands are shaking. You never see marks on a sober person’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.”

With the end of Sherlock’s explanation, the phone appeared again in John’s hand.

“That was amazing.”

Sherlock looked round, so surprised that he could not even reply for the next four seconds.

“Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“Let me guess: They say, _please grant my wish_?”

“With a lot of swearing. Or, if I don’t do it immediately, _piss off_ ”

He smiled briefly at John, who grinned and turned away to look out of the window.

Outside, the normal life of London rushed by. The ordinary life compared to what happened here in 221b, together with Sherlock Holmes.

“How did you know that Harry is my sister?” John asked. “Harry could be my brother. How did you know that Harry is short for Harriet?”

“Because I am a Jinn, John.”

For the first time, John sensed something. He could not pinpoint out what it was, exactly; feelings were never his strong suit. His mental health had been in a poor state, and, compared to Sherlock, he surely was an idiot.

“Is that why you knew my name, too?”

“Yes, John. And I know as well what the _H_ in John. H. Watson stands. I know everything about you, John, from your birth to the present day.”

“So, is the correct term, _deduction_ or _magic trick_?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes and no, John. What you have to understand is that I’m a Jinn. It’s my profession to know everything about the person I’m granting wishes for – otherwise, how could I do the granting? There are people who are reluctant to admit their wishes. Others wish for what is impossible given their circumstances, or others wish for things that, without the knowledge of their character, might harm others. It’s my job to know about the people whose wishes I grant.”

“But...”

“I said that I don’t grant wishes, but not in the sense that you think. It’s more of a gift. I have high standards for wishes. Perhaps I should say that I don’t grant _whims_. Most people’s wishes are tremendously dull. Where’s the excitement if all you do for centuries is granting the same wishes repeatedly? Not to mention the repeated reminder that no, you can’t grant infinite wishes, and, no, you can’t grant immortality – and no, you can’t make people fall in love with you. You can’t kill someone either. And, no, I can’t bring someone back from death either. If you have regrets, you should told them you loved them and acted accordingly while they were still alive.”

“So... how do you do it, then? You switch people or...?”

“No, John. That would be excellent. Sadly, it’s impossible. I can only leave someone once their three wishes are granted. However, I can speed up things with giving them clues on what to wish for. This is why knowledge about a person and my own skills come in rather handy. There are only so many idiots one can endure for all eternity.”

John wanted to know more. How did one become a jinn? Was there a school? How old _was_ Sherlock? Ancient? Were there more like him?

What he asked instead was: “There’s no way out of it for you? You know, becoming human?”

Sherlock sat shock-still. Had no one ever asked this? Was John the first person in god-knows-how-long who had initiated a real conversation with him?

“I don’t know, John. I wished I knew. God knows, I’ve tried. Nevertheless, if there’s a way, I haven’t found it. And, before you ask, John, no – you cannot free me.”

 

* * *

 

Some time later, they ordered take-away. More accurately, Sherlock had thrown various menus at John and demanded that he call the different places.

John had lost all feelings of time and space. Was this a normal occurrence? John’s concept of normal was under constant question, too, but he surprised himself by admitting that he did not need it. Now, when thinking about _normal_ , it was as if Sherlock’s voice was in his head, commenting that _normal is boring_.

Sherlock was anything but, and John loved it.

Half an hour later, John learned that it was wiser if he was the one to open the door, because the way Sherlock greeted delivery driver was appalling.

When John had muttered, “Manners”, Sherlock had only replied, “Dull.” How to spot a good Chinese restaurant seemed to be more up his alley. John wanted to be grumpy, but he had shed off the sad former self since their first strange meeting.

Sherlock shovelled half a dozen pieces of bacon into his mouth, chewed, and wiped the fat from his lips with the back of his hand.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. “For dinner, I mean.”

John raised an eyebrow at him, mock-sternly with a lingering element of _more_ , he replied, “You liked it? I must come again.”

This time it was John who winked. It might have been a flicker of the light, or the flames, but John thought that Sherlock was blushing. Which was, well... good. Very good, in fact. John wetted his lips, which had gone suddenly dry, he could have sworn that the jinn had followed the movement. A different kind of excitement sizzled in John’s gut.

 

* * *

 

It had been only a few hours, and John could not even determine the exact time since he had been sucked into his own wonderland.

His was world was irreversibly changed: a life without Sherlock seemed impossible now.

It was not Sherlock Holmes, the Jinn, but Sherlock Holmes, the man, that proved to be endless fascinating. The constant denial that he was a typical jinn only irritated John. Constantly, he had felt wrong-footed. Honestly, if it was possible – and if someone could do it, it would be Sherlock – the word WRONG would miraculously appear out of thin air whenever this strange, queer, oh-so-beautiful man was in deduction mood.

There was energy to his movements, always alert. His enthusiasm, his curiosity – this and so much more –blended into John, who soaked it up like a sponge in return.

A flame had lit him from within. John Watson, a man who had stared silently into the darkness, into the reality of his bedsit and the flicker of his imagination for month.

Sherlock had finally provided him with the action he craved.

Here, in 221b, John Watson could imagine himself sitting in his chair and typing blog entries about his lunatic of a new friend. Since meeting Sherlock, he felt like himself again. Now, he could barely believe he had written _Nothing ever happen to me_ only yesterday.

With the Jinn at his side, everything seemed possible.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s whispered, “Welcome back”, brought him back to the present. The jinn turned and started to walk away, in the direction of what John assumed to be his bedroom. “Time to choose a side, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The eyeball is a fusion of the iconic scene from "The Sign of Three" aka John Watson asking Sherlock to be his best man because he's - obviously - his best friend, and the backstory of Odin from AMERICAN GODS. 
> 
> The remark that "the magical car" is a London cab comes from BBC SHERLOCK. It was the starting point of LONDON GODS btw. Somehow my mind made the connection and the plot bunny didn't want to let it go anymore.
> 
> The "magical trick" aka Sherlock might be not a genius who could do all those clever deductions but only playing-pretend is from "The Reichenbach Fall", yep, the rooftop scene. Yes, I'm a tiny bit proud of the twist I spinned here.


	4. I Don't Grant Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #magical sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter you've been all waiting for: sexy times between jinn!Sherlock and mortal!John. It's time for #magical sex.

_“I don’t grant w i s h e s.”_

_“But you do.”_

(Neil Gaiman: AMERICAN GODS)

 

 

John asked if he ought to use Sherlock’s bathroom first.

When he came out of the shower, wet, with a towel wrapped about his mid-section, Sherlock was waiting for him in his bedroom.

The Jinn was not wearing his sunglasses, and in the dim room, his eyes were burning with scarlet flames.

John blinked back tears. “I wish you could see what I see.”

“I do not grant wishes,” whispered the Jinn, making John dropping his towel. He pushed him gently, but irresistibly, down onto the bed.

John did not move for a few seconds, his gaze still locked with Sherlock’s. He dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, and then started to unfasten his belt.

“All right?”

Sherlock tilted his head back, breathing heavily.

Urgently, John replied, “Are _you_ all right?”

“Yeah-yeah, I’m fine.”

Sherlock, also breathing too fast, continued tugging at the jacket and vest. Finally, he managed to roughly strip the jacket and vest off his arms. Sherlock bent and tossed the items as far away along the floor as he could – while John as staggered at the vehemence with which his lover just ripped them off himself. The jinn reached up and pulled his trousers off, breathing heavily. He turned and stared at John for a moment, then hurried back to further undress himself. Socks, pants, finally, he was laid bare.

Sherlock had temporarily lowered his head, as to not meeting John’s eyes.

John leant forward and stood up. He raised Sherlock’s head. They eyes met; fire burned in both of them.

 

* * *

 

The pale skin of his lover seemed to be endless.

It was a sensual contrast: it had the colour of snow or ice, but burnt like fire.

Originally, John had wanted to go onto his knees to worship him. His cock was magnificent as well as the rest of his body, and John wanted to taste him, to find out for himself if he was hotter than a human. It was curiosity – but, even more, it was driven by lust.

However, the Jinn lifted him up.

They stood before each other, bare, breathing hard. Blue eyes like heaven, and scarlet eyes like hell, locked together, and ready to burn. The kiss was sweet and almost chaste, and it rocked John’s world more irrevocably than anything before.

When John licked into his mouth, the flames danced with him.

Not for a second, John feared he might be burned, and that was why the flames could not touch him. All they did was heat the insides of John’s body – making him sweat, making him pant, making him harder than ever before.

They rolled together on the bed, sheets twining around their overheating bodies – soon to be discarded. No barrier between them, no distraction.

Sherlock’s bites were like brand marks.

John cherished them, welcomed them, and threw his head back in bliss. He who had felt lost felt that he was found again. There was a power that claimed him and forged a new band, ravished his body and made him completely again. Forehead, cheek, clavicle; all the way down his spine; each fingertip, and John wanted to weep. When Sherlock lingered there, he sucked them in, let his lover give a better taste of his flesh.

Sherlock consumed him. John was his.

John came the first time with Sherlock behind him, cradled in Sherlock’s arms, as if he were a newborn. He was moving with him, his strokes in time; the feeling of the Jinn’s hand on his cock was otherworldly. Was it Sherlock’s nature, as a genie or a genius, that he knew when John needed faster, when he needed harder, when he needed _that, exactly, here, oh, God, Sherlock_?

John did not know and did not care, and that was Sherlock’s downfall as well as salvation.

John had been battling with his sexuality since he hit puberty. What he desired was forbidden, or so he had made himself belief. The aftermath of the war had put a strain on his libido. Some nights self-love had been literal self-abuse.

Now, his eyes sting with unshed tears as well.

When the seed left his body, his cock rose again.

The Jinn had not finished, and John was hardly sated.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Sherlock was riding John.

John saw the need in him, how he tried to battle against his bodies demands.

“John...”

“What do you need?”

“To be inside you.”

John swallowed. Somehow, John had assumed that Sherlock would have preferred for _John_ to take him, face-to-face, for the first time.

Yet, Sherlock was no human. Where a mortal man had a choice, a Jinn did not.

The fire that burned inside John’s lover wanted to be tamed. There was nothing to it; Sherlock needed the release, and the only way was by penetrating John. John would have offered his mouth, but it was no use. Sherlock was too wound up, too agitated, too driven.

“John...” Sherlock’s pronunciation of his name was more of a moan than anything; it called to John’s heart. “I need...”

“I know,” John soothed – as if Sherlock was an inexperienced human and not an ancient Jinn. “Hush...All right”

Desperate, Sherlock grabbed him by the neck, crushing their mouths together as they fell backward onto the mattress. Sherlock’s hand travelled to John’s back, and then his arse, tugging as if he wanted to fuse them together on the spot.

Finally, Sherlock rolled them so that he was on top. He recaptured John’s mouth, rutting against him.

There was no need for lube or condoms, or the usual elaborate preparations.

“The pecks of shagging a Jinn,” teased John.

Sherlock mock-sternly slapped John on his buttocks. It burned.

“Shut up, John”, Sherlock teased back. His deep baritone echoed with power – and yet it was smooth as velvet. “I am on fire...”

Both of them burst into a fit of giggles.

And, for John, that was the biggest surprise. Their joining was hot and fierce, but it was also _terribly_ human. John could see neither his own eyes, nor Sherlock’s, but he guessed that they were both alight with mischief and delight.

John sat in front of Sherlock, feeling the heat of Sherlock’s fire on his back. Sherlock’s gaze travelled his body, and all was good. Finally, John lay back on the mattress, knees bent. John took Sherlock’s hand, guiding it between his legs until he felt Sherlock’s finger skim over his hole. His breath caught in his throat as he pushed against Sherlock’s hand, feeling the tip of Sherlock’s finger pressing in.

John couldn’t think as his head fell back against the mattress.

It burned like hell, and felt heavenly besides. _God_ , they both needed more.

Sherlock scissored his fingers, and John surprised himself with a moan.

"Now?" Sherlock breathed out.

"I— yes. Just, let me—"

All breath left John when Sherlock entered him. All was fire. When a human body was warm, a Jinn’s body was _burning_.

It filled John up – overwhelming, a fullness, an all-consuming feeling of _belonging_. It was familiar and strange, different and wonderful.

The second the Jinn sensed that John’s body adjusted, he started to move. It felt like the flicker of flames inside him. One second, high and scorching; the next low and simmering. One continuous wave, all hot and bright.

This was all for him, and John let it happen.

John looked at Sherlock in awe as the fire wandered. He could see how the fire had wandered from his lovers’ eyes. How he was alight, and John burned with him.

It was an hour or more before the Jinn came – thrusting, grinding into John’s body. John felt Sherlock’s climax, as well as the aftershock, vividly. The fire rushed through him, filled him up. He knew that, when they eyes met, that his eyes were burning scarlet just like the Jinn’s.

 

* * *

 

“That was... fantastic.”

“You think so?”

Smug bastard. He was stretched out on the bed, and if Sherlock had been a cat, he would be purring. He surely liked to be petted and stroked. Lazy, gorgeous git.

“As if you wouldn’t know it. Amazing, brilliant.”

“You know that you said that aloud, John? I probably should be calling myself lucky that your previous sexual encounters lack...”

“Oi, Sherlock!” John hit him with a pillow. “Yes, you’re a Sex God, no need to insult others.”

“I’m not a Sex God, John. Even if it flatters me that you think that possible.”

“Oh, so you’re a jinn, but neither do you grant wishes, nor have sexual powers? What kind of jinn are you?”

“John Watson, delete all that nonsense about jinn being slaves to their masters wishes’, up to and including sexual gratification, from your memory immediately. Modern men and their fairytales. It’s so dull. Further, it’s tremendously apparent what they’re aiming for: men seek power. There is hardly a better way to exert power than to bend another to one’s most intimate wishes. Oh, and if the other is not a man, but a creature with supernatural powers, would the commanding of that creature not turn the man into a god? Make him _act_ like a god and three times. It’s something that all humankind seeks. Men are so predictable.”

There was a look of distain in Sherlock’s features. However, John sensed it ran deeper. Had there been men who had acted in that way towards Sherlock in the past? Was this why he insisted that he did not grant wishes? Had there been people who were unworthy of wishes, but Sherlock, bound by his magic, had to fulfil them anyway?

As they made love, John had kissed down Sherlock’s spine. There, he could not overlook the scars on his lovers’ back. As a doctor, he could infer the cause, and it was not pretty.

John longed to wish them away with each kiss, but he was only human. He hoped that his action transported wish to Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

John went back to the bathroom and washed out his mouth. When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was already asleep in the white bed, snoring peacefully.

Unknown to John, Supernatural beings in general did not sleep, and most nights, Sherlock preferred not to. However, from time to time, he indulged. Not because he needed to, but simply because he choose to. It was one of the pleasures of the world; after all, tonight had been very pleasurable.

John, unaware of his bedmate’s unusual behaviour, climbed into bed besides him. He cuddled close to the jinn, imagining the desert on his skin.

As John started to drift off, he realized that he still had not written an account of the day on his blog. He felt guilty. For the first time, John wanted to share his story with someone, but who would believe him?

The only old friend he had run into recently was Mike Stamford.

Mike was perpetually cheerful, self-deprecating, getting soft and round as a university professor. He had only stopped his easy smiling when John had replied to his inquiry about what he had done in Afghanistan with, “Getting shot”.

It had been Mike who had suggested that John should apply at Sarah Sawyer’s office. “All doctors know a doctor”, or so Mike had joked.

John might not have yet have found a new employment, but meeting Sherlock Holmes was more important. It offered far more excitement and fulfilment than local GP work.

Actually, John decided that he would buy Mike a coffee next time in thanks.

After all, John mused while his eyelids got heavier, Mike had been a matchmaker, and all _without_ magical powers. If it had not been part of a bigger plan, then...

John rested his hand on the jinn’s back. Comforted, he slept.

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am on fire"; it's the quote from Tolkien's, 'THE HOBBIT', aka Smaug's famous line which was performed magnificently by Benedict Cumberbatch.
> 
> That a certain supernatural being does not need to sleep, but chooses to do so - that's a nod to Neil Gaiman's famous demon Crowley from 'GOOD OMENS'. 
> 
> That jinn/genie might be sexual slaves to their master is a nod to a fandom classic by mojoflowers. There's a podfic by consulting_smartarse as well.
> 
> The complete storyline of Salim and the Jinn is only a bit over 3,000 words. The following is the sex scene as it happens in the original novel: _"The taxi driver comes out of the shower, wet, with a towel wrapped about his med-section. He is not wearing his sunglasses, and in the dim room his eyes burn with scarlet flames. Salim blinks back tears. “I wish you could see what I see,” he says. “I do not grant wishes,” whispers the Ifrit, dropping his towel and pushing Salim gently, but irresistibly, down onto the bed. It is an hour or more before the Ifrit comes, thrusting and grinding into Salim’s mouth. Salim has already come twice in this time. The jinn’s semen tastes strange, fiery and it burns Salim’s throat. Salim goes to the bathroom, washes out his mouth. When he returns to the bedroom, the taxi driver is already asleep in the white bed, snoring peacefully. Salim climbs into the bed beside him, cuddles close to the Ifrit, imagining the desert on his skin."_
> 
> That's it. Bryan Fuller and Michael Green expanded it a bit (and they made them reshoot it because Fuller, as a gay man, was like: "This doesn't work..."), but yes, the majority? All mine. Sorry, not sorry, that my sex scene is probably longer than all storyline of Salim and the Jinn combined. #love is love #representation matters #fandom is my escape room


	5. London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the morning after the all-changing sex, aka the beginning of the rest of their lives. However, how long will it last when one is a supernatural being and the other is a mortal man? Will the star-crossed lovers wish be granted...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the final chapter of "LONDON GODS"!
> 
> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos and comments, cheering along on tumblr, editing, and creating fan art.  
> I had a blast writing this fic, and I hope a bit of this joy came/comes through in the text. 
> 
> I'm particular proud of the final chapter as it provides a plot twist, I *think* no one has caught on yet. Since the beginning, already in the plotting process, I wanted to "pull a Neilman", like he did with 'A STUDY IN EMERALD'. For the people who aren't familiar with it, it's an ACD pastiche by Neil Gaiman, which has a particular spin on 'A STUDY IN SCARLET': the heroes, aka Sherlock Holmes (Vernet) and John Watson, are the baddies, while the narrator and his new companion, the detective, are probably no-other than Moran and Moriarty. However, that "truth" only reveals itself in the very very very last line. 
> 
> Tell me - I'm a curious git - if you have guessed the ending. Or, no problem, if you have skipped back to chapter one and started rereading. Seriously, you cannot imagine how excited/giddy/anxious I am how the reaction to the final twist will be...^^ And how you like the fic overall. Did you started binge-watching the show on Amazon? Did the world-builing work? Do you want more from the star-crossed lovers?
> 
> However, first things first: Welcome to "London Calling".

_“I have a feeling that we were meant to be together._

_That we have fought the good fight, side by side, in the past or in the future, I do not now._

_I am a rational man, but I have learned the value of a good c o m p a n i o n_

_and from the moment I clapped eyes on you, I knew I trusted you as well as I do myself._

_Yes. I want you with me.”_

(Neil Gaiman: A STUDY IN EMERALD)

 

 

They wake in the small hours, moving against each other, and they made love again. At one point, John realized that he was crying, and that the Jinn was kissing away his tears with burning lips.

“I don’t want to pry, Sherlock, but I’m curious. It’s just that... I feel better, so much better, since meeting you. However, I’m pretty sure that I haven’t wished for anything.”

“You want to know if you have to utter wishes aloud to get them granted?”

John gathered that this was the safer of his questions he’d like to answered. Therefore, he nodded.

“And now John, ask the question you really wanted me to answer.”

“Can you read my mind?”

“Seriously, is this people think jinn can do? No, John, I cannot read your mind, but I can read people very well. It is part of my magical nature – or so I assume – all my own. I am not the only jinn in the world, but I am the second most powerful of my kind when it comes to deduction. The first was the one who drove away the cab while we were entering the flat. However, he is not our problem now. John: What else do you wished to know?”

“Why does it matter?” John tried to stall.

Worse yet, Sherlock knew it. With glaring eyes, and fidgeting fingers, he read John like an open book, knowing that John would grumble.

“Data, John. I need data.” As if this explanation was not confusing enough for a mortal already, Sherlock continued, “My mind is going to rot. I need stimuli. Give me puzzles. So far, you’ve proved to be a puzzle, and your questions so far aren’t entirely stupid. So, please, John, your question.”

“Are you my miracle?”

After all, even in the maddening absence of an answer, John could not remember where the sex had stopped and the dreams began.

 

* * *

 

“Why a London cab?”

“John?”

“Why a cab, or do you switch cars?”

“Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? You call for us when you are drunk and need a safe trip home. You call for us when you are in a hurry, and it’s so important you reach your destination in time. You call for us when it’s a dark and stormy night, when the rain is pouring down, when it seems as if the world is going to end. No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s as if we’re invisible. Just the back of a head.”

“Okay?”

“Don’t you see it, John? A cab driver is like Jinn, genie or Ifrit, whatever you want to call us nowadays. We’re only called when you need fixing. Please, jinn, help me. Please, jinn, grant my wish. Please, jinn, please. And oh, they’re so grateful for a second, but then we’re forgotten. They don’t even try to learn our names. Because... do I matter? Does any of it? You know, I am just a jinn, and it is my nature... no, my _duty_... to grant your wishes, and if I do it, I will always let you mortals down. You’re wasting your time with only a word of gratitude, because it _is_ your time. I have all the time in the world; therefore, humans can demand that I spend it on their will... over and over again.”

 

* * *

 

The Jinn were made of fire. Or, humans had regarded them as being about more than granting wishes, or living in bottles. They weren’t thought of as having blue skin and wearing horrible clothes, or in case of Sherlock Holmes, driving cabs in London.

Once upon a time, one could said that being in close proximity of Jinn was as if one was burning alive. There was fire in their hearts, and they wish to please people, to bring joy and hope into their lives.

However, in modern times, it was more as if the Jinn were the ones burning alive. That with each new person who demanded them to grant their wishes, another segment of the Jinn’s heart was lost. Once, the Jinn had been Great Gods.

Now most people acted as if they were not even Good Ones. That with fire came demonic power, the Gates of Hell wide open. Moreover, that someone like Sherlock Holmes, whose gifts abounded with skills foreign and strange for mortals, was a freak. They needed him, but they feared him more. With each passing day, they believed in him less.

Humankind tried to burn the heart out of the Jinn.

Therefore, Sherlock Holmes pretended to have not a heart. Yet he had always had one, and still did. A heart that now belonged to John Watson. A heart whose love burned inside the man made of fire like the hottest flames known to humankind.

He who had been familiar with fire since the beginning of time could not remember feeling so alive.

 

* * *

 

When John woke the third time, the sun was creeping into the room. He was warm.

Sherlock was draped across his body, ensuring that they would not drift apart in sleep.

John looked around, having no real interest in doing so last night, far too occupied with his lover.

Bewildered, John discovered that his suitcase was there, as well as all his keepsakes and souvenirs from childhood, university and army days alike. There was the small wooden box in which he had stored his dog tags and the bullet that had sent him home.

His laptop, even; was this his mug? What were the odds?

His favourite jumper, hanging over a chair that surely had not been here yesterday, appeared to have burn marks. The wardrobe had now doubled its size.

There was a photograph on the bedside table showing the two of them in 221b: in their chairs by the fire, grinning like lunatics.

“I don’t grant wishes, my arse”, John mumbled, smiling softly.

Immediately, there was movement in bed. Sherlock bestowed a hesitant kiss was on John’s shoulder. The battle scar remained, but the sentiment had changed: John welcomed it as a reminder that all of this was real. He was home; now, he believed he was truly alive.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs, but I don’t think that we’ll need it. I could continue to use it as a storage room for the disguises and the case file, which is excellent. You’ll have to make the tea in the mornings. Some days, I don’t sleep or eat, and, _oh_ , and the violin music you heard is actually me playing. It helps me to think. What else do you need to know? Partners should know the worst things about each other. Mrs. Hudson is a great landlady, as well as a housekeeper... even if she will deny the latter. Do not interfere; just accept the food she brings. All the better for us, as I abhor shopping. Otherwise, you’ll have to do it. _Obviously_. I do hope you’ll drop your reservations about using chip-and-pin-machines.”

“Sherlock... stop _what_?”

“John, I _don’t_ grant wishes. However, I’m in need of an assistant for my work. I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job. You carry a gun, you are addicted to danger, and I could provide you with adventures you could actually blog about. And I have this flat and it’s an expensive spot, even Mrs Hudson gives me a discount. She owns me a favour. It’s a rather long story, John. Let us say, normally, you only get three wishes granted but it had to be assured that her husband really got executed in America. Anyway, where was I? Flat share: as the last couple of hours have shown, we hit off rather nicely. So, if you don’t mind: the police will come with a case that they can’t solve without my help in approximately 25 minutes. Until then, we could... go for another round of sex. What do you think? I might even grant your wish for a blow job. Do you think we can finish before Lestrade shows up?”

 

* * *

 

When they would leave 221b to rush to a crime scene half an hour later, Sherlock would call for a cab. John would follow him quickly.

By then, Sherlock would realised that his wish, just like John’s miracle, had been granted. However, why state the obvious? No, that revelation could wait when finally something fun was going on!

After all, they were two mortal men – Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson – following their hearts.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that the Jinn was in the City of Sodom is from AMERICAN GODS season 2, the story around The City of the Lost Towers from AMERICAN GODS. Sadly, that's all the information novel and TV series provided us yet. I wished I had come up with the line, "You smell like sex... with humans." "That is maybe because I like fucking them", but nope, all theirs. 
> 
> The rant about Jinn's jobs nowadays and how they resemble a cab driver; it's Jim's, aka a consulting criminal. If you spot a familiar line or two from BBC SHERLOCK or ACD, it's a fusion afterall. 
> 
> Last but not least, there might be a prequel in the making which might tell the Jinn's story and how he mets John (for the first time). Any interest...?

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love. Comments are very welcome. Let's squee about AMERICAN GODS and SHERLOCK together, okay?


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